


The Comeuppance

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Dubious Consent, Hurt with no Comfort, M/M, Master/Servant, OR IS IT, Oral Sex, Public Hand Jobs, Sexual Violence, Squick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4053715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something strange is afoot in Angband, and the legions are desperate to find out what.  Crack, PWP … or is it?</p><p>Read entirely at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comeuppance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own it, and after this fic thank god for that.  
> Rating: Hard R  
> Notes: I am simultaneously sorry, and not sorry in the slightest.  
> Warnings: Violence (both descriptive and implied), dubious consent, additional graphic squicky content that may disturb some readers.

It was later known as the Incident of Which They Do Not Speak.  
  
Well, more the incident of which Lord Melkor and Lieutenant Mairon do not speak; the same did not pertain to the servants of Angband.  Particularly those with a penchant for gossip.  
  
For it was not all that unusual on a slow day in the kingdom – when the act of chopping wood and burning things began to bore – that a group of Angband workers should gather, bleary-eyed and soot-covered, over a pint of mead and carcass of wood-elf, and simply … discuss.  
  
As, as far as they could tell, something _odd_ had happened that night.  
  
Something inexplicable.  
  
Something, well … rather darned curious.  
  
That had led to some strange behaviour at the top of Angband’s chain of command.  
  
Extended silences, for example. The slight, _uncomfortable_ expression on Lieutenant Mairon’s face. The wider berth Lord Morgoth now afforded his charge.  And even the occasional subtle wince on Morgoth’s face when the Lieutenant sat next to him, goblet in hand.  
  
Ah, yes.  The Legions of Angband were not fooled.  Nor were they unfamiliar with the perils and pitfalls of the fated “relationship”.  Something had stirred a-mess between their Lord and Lieutenant, and by Eru himself they would come to a consensus on what was behind it if it killed them.  
  
Many a night the ale was sloshed in impassioned articulation across the stone table tops of the local tavern; sometimes a fist or two was also involved.  Although in their defense Angband had not been rocked by a juicy scandal since that one time Captain Theowend the Valkarauke had been found in compromising circumstances with a Halfling – and they _all_ knew how that had ended.  
  
But this; this was something else. And oh were there ever theories as to what “this” was.  
  
Some say it was the night of a scalding spat between _King_ and _Second_ , that had crumbled the walls and shaken the earth.  
  
Some say it was the night Lord Morgoth created _dragons_ , each one sculpted from the fiery fingernails of an angry and unwilling Aulëan Maia.  
  
Some say it was a lovers’ quarrel over none other than _Captain Gothmog_ , Lieutenant Mairon consuming himself in a furious envy.  
  
But underneath it all, underneath all the tales and tall stories and embellished lies, underneath all that _carnage_ – all that was known for certain was the following: 

  1.   On Tuesday, Year 455 of the First Age, Lord Melkor held a banquet known only as _The Feast_. Little was understood about its occasion; they were all rather drunk.   
  
Rich plums, large dates, salted Noldorian Elf brains and flax-leaf canapés of tongue were among the lavish selection of charcuterie and nibbles on offer.  Spiced wine had been served, though most found its way to the head of the table, leaving the majority of guests with merely ale.  
  



  1.   At the head of the table had sat Lord Morgoth in an iron throne, Lieutenant Mairon to his right.  Why the Maia had acquired a seat at the front no one was exactly sure, but many suspected (and rightly so) that penis was involved.  
  
Lord Melkor had worn embroidered silken robes of ebony, swallowing the scene around him in the blinding grey light of his Silmarils.  Despite his stony-faced exterior, the Vala had appeared especially _delighted_ with the food.  
  
In contrast, Lieutenant Mairon’s sneer stretched as long as the crimson braid that trailed down his back. The Maia had occupied his seat with a sour expression, one long leg thrown across the other and adorned in more than any mortal’s fair share of golden bedeckery.   
  
His aloofness had angered some of the Orcs, considering the Maia had also been receiving a not-so-subtle handjob from Lord Melkor during a large portion of the meal.  
  



  1.   Several hours into the feast, Lord Melkor had arisen – Lieutenant in hand – and the pair had departed the hall to a slurry of catcalls. There was little question as to whither they had head.  
  
The pair was not sighted for the remainder of the evening, but the feast continued.  
  



  1.   In the early hours of Wednesday morning three semi-sober Orcs had worried across a strange sight on the lower levels of Angband’s fortress close to Lord Melkor’s personal wings.  A stumbling Maia had been seen traversing the length of hall that led from the innermost chambers of the castle – swaying, weak-footed, and trembling.  
  
His crimson hair, they said, had been matted in clumps and his silken robes were torn. The golden rings upon his fingers had disappeared – though there was no doubt it had been Lieutenant Mairon.  
  
He was crying.  
  



  1.   The Maia had not been seen in public for the following four moons. Though while the absence was not publicly noted, two of Angband’s most decorated Balrog Captains had confirmed that Lord Melkor appeared … surlier than usual.



 

And therein lay the question – the true mystery to it all:  
  
_What had really happened that night?  
  
_ For while rumours swirled, and fists flew and mead spilled, and voices rose across the stretching walls of Angband taverns and wound their way into every crevice of the halls – there was no one, absolutely _no one_ who knew for sure.  
  
Save for two.   
  


* * *

  
“My Lord, if you keep shoving food into your mouth like that, you are going to choke on it.”  
  
Not batting an eye, Melkor wrenched another whole drumstick between his teeth.   
  
Lieutenant Mairon _tsk_ ed and turned back to his meal.  
  
A confused clanging of knives and forks could be heard piercing above the chatter of the room, as their Orc guests tried to figure out how to use the cutlery.  Trust Lord Melkor not to teach the race even the most basic of table manners – something of which Mairon had found out the hard way after the initiation of their first kingdom-wide feast.  
  
A rogue piece of bread was flung in the direction of the throne, narrowly missing Lord Melkor’s hair; though, the Vala was much to immersed in his meal to notice.  
  
At the head of the table Mairon picked with disdain at the elf head on his plate, distracted by the loud chewing to his left as Melkor shovelled food into his mouth without giving himself time to swallow.   
  
‘At least,’ Mairon thought as he stabbed at an eyeball with his fork and turned to take a frustrated gulp from his goblet: ‘This time I came prepared.’ Taking another sip, Mairon swirled the stolen Aulëan wine around in his mouth, a trail of cinnamon and nutmeg burning across his tongue.   
  
“Annnd there he goes …” Melkor hashed to his left, the words smudging thick under a mouthful of potato. The Vala sounded amused, and Mairon looked up just in time to witness Captain Gothmog’s head slip below the granite bench across from them, landing on the stone floor with a clatter.  
  
Mairon made to scoff, though what came out sounded far too much like an undignified snort for his liking. Flushing lightly, he refilled his goblet to compensate.  
  
Melkor’s wandering hand tightened upon his knee.  
  
“ _Lieutenant Mairon_!” A rough voice hollered from further down the table. Mairon shifted forward in his seat to spot the culprit.  A copper-faced Valkarauke leered back at him and waved his pint, pointing to the large lump that was once Gothmog, curled upon the floor.  
  
“Yes … as usual!” Mairon called down the table past a row of ravenous Orcs, his lips curling into a contemptuous smirk as he waved his left hand deftly, “Lord Gothmog cannot hold his liquor like any charge of worthy command.”   
  
Mairon peered down at the Balrog with satisfaction and tilted up his nose: “Why do you think it is we never promote him? – … ow.” He winced as Morgoth dug sharp nails into the skin of his thigh.  
  
The Valkarauke responded with a roar of mirth, and several of his companions turned to stare down at Gothmog with toothy, leering grins – though the Captain slept on, oblivious.  
  
Mairon leaned back in his seat with a sneer.  
  
“Where’s that little Elf lass run off to, anyway?” He clicked his fingers with impatience, glaring over at an ashen-faced Elf serving Noldor-tongue canapés nearby. “You –” Mairon instructed, flicking his gold-adorned hand: “Get me more wine.”  
  
Melkor snorted to his left, and Mairon glanced over at the Vala as he felt Melkor’s thick hand resume its stroking path down the soft fabric of his leggings.  Not a bad way to end the night, if Mairon did say so himself. It was not often that the Vala indulged him, but Mairon had done an outright fantastic job in Beleriand and Melkor was _very_ pleased.  
  
So much so, it seemed, that he was working his way up to gifting Mairon an all-out public handjob in the dining hall – albeit, through mouthfuls of elf flesh … but a faithful Lieutenant accepted reward however it presented itself.  And Mairon was naught but faithful (well, sometimes anyway).  
  
Regardless, as his goblet returned to him refilled to the brim with more of Aulë’s favourite spiced wine, Mairon decided he was going to enjoy the treat with open arms.  Or, open legs, at least.  
  
Uncrossing his knees, Mairon spread his thighs and sighed as Melkor’s hand began to brush across his pelvis and ghost along his length.  
  
‘Yes,’ Mairon thought, as he balanced his goblet to his lips without even spilling any liquor, ‘was this not what I left Valinor for?  At least my Lord keeps good on his promises.’  
  
He shot the Vala a furtive sidelong glance, and was rewarded by the sight of Melkor stuffing another whole eagle leg into his mouth.  
  
Charming.  
  
‘… Even if his table manners are rather lax.’  
  
Though poor table manners or not, Mairon supposed, as he eyed Morgoth’s profile from the side, running his eyes down the Vala’s strong nose and cutting jaw line and the rough skin of his neck where the bend of the Vala’s larynx jutted in delicate grace along the line, his Master was the pure embodiment of might and power, so rich so that Mairon could taste it from ever afar in a wash of ashen flame and mylonite.  
  
A warm bleeding pleasure was beginning to kindle in his lower stomach as Melkor wound his hand deftly across the head of Mairon’s thickening cock, hidden now not-so-well beneath his leggings.  
  
Mairon worried at his lip, and ripped his eyes from his crotch to glance down the table at their company. As cutlery clanged he suffered a few instances of awkward eye contact with a group of Orcs nearby, and Mairon raised his goblet in a reflex to cover the twinge he felt clash across his face.  
  
As Melkor rubbed a thumb over his head three times in quick succession, Mairon felt his hips twitch of their own accord.  Shit.  
  
This could end messily.  
  
He sank his teeth into his lip and shot Melkor another glance, as his breaths began to shorten. His Master wouldn’t … No. Surely not here.  
  
Mairon shifted, gulping down more wine.  He felt far too relaxed already, but Melkor’s manipulation was beginning to make him squirm. Possibly, more wine would fix the issue.  
  
Yes.  More wine.  
  
From down the table there was a roar, as three Orcs descended into a fistfight over the last rack of elf ribs. Melkor squashed more food into his mouth, looking up from his meal to stare with amusement at the chaos building down the hall, as more Orcs joined the fray.  “Finally some entertainment,” The Vala mumbled through a mouthful of liver, his right arm still on attack.  
  
“How in Mandos can you eat so much,” Mairon remarked between laboured breaths.  The Vala tugged him a few times in earnest, turning for the first time that evening to shoot Mairon a filthy grin that did wicked things to his insides. “Ah … _shit_.” Mairon panted as his hips jerked, and he found himself gripping at the arms of his chair in a desperate attempt not to grab onto Melkor’s arm and force his hand down his leggings.  
  
A rogue mug was flung in their direction, spilling mead across the table near Melkor’s plate. Mairon was beginning to wonder if people were aiming for them.  
  
“Well,” Mairon continued, squeezing his eyes shut to try and clear the blur that was spreading across his vision. “At least they’re not staring at me anymore.”  
  
“You’re not looking properly.” Melkor ground, forcing the Maia to flush and glance again around the room. Fists were flying and the elf ribs were now lying on the floor in a pool of their own sauce, much like Gothmog. But Melkor was right: several Maia closer to their end of the table were now staring quite overtly at his crotch, in varying grades of offense and interest.  
  
And Mairon’s cock was starting to enjoy the attention far too much.  
  
“Master,” Mairon attempted, as he pushed himself forward in his seat.  Melkor had become re-consumed with devouring the rest of Arda’s food supply. Mairon chose to ignore the way his head swum as he shifted, the burning rush of pleasure making it ever harder to think. “Shall we retire for the evening, do you suppose?”  
  
Melkor did not react. Mairon frowned, leaning over further until the blistering scent of the Vala’s hair wafted up his nostrils and threatened to consume him right there in his seat.  
  
He slid closer.  
  
“There are some … matters to discuss of which I believe would be of upmost interest to you, my Lord.” Mairon breathed, and – boldly, in public, even though the opposite had just taken place – he ghosted his fingers along the join where Melkor’s leg met his hip.  
  
“I believe you would feel most … most pleased with our discussion.”  
  
He swallowed and tilted in even closer, forcing the words out in a breathy sigh that even the Vala had a hard time ignoring: “As you remember: I present so well …” He let his breath hitch, and the noise was almost not so insincere.  
  
And Mairon knew he was in, as soon as he caught the darkened flicker of Morgoth’s gaze and the piece of red elf meat that now sat un-chewed between the Vala’s sharpened teeth. And he smirked a hidden, triumphant smirk – the expression twitching at the ends of his mouth.  
  
Deftly, Mairon flicked his fingers along the line of Morgoth’s hip, in a whisper-like touch that brushed across the large swell of his Master’s arousal.  
  
He watched as with agonizing slowness Melkor brought his hand down past his plate and reached over to encircle Mairon’s wandering wrist – gripping him with a force that was both tight and very, very _possessive_.  
  
And in his growing haze Mairon’s eyelids fluttered, and for a moment he forgot his breath.  
  
_Yes._  
  

* * *

  
He found himself with his back against the wall and his legs parted, as Melkor curled around him like smoke. They were standing in Morgoth’s chambers, a burning mix of ice and flame.  
  
Melkor was devouring his lips.  
  
His vision swirling, Mairon tilted back his head.  His lips curled into a self-satisfied smile as he let Melkor lick across the backs of his teeth.  
  
Melkor gripped at his hair, yanking his head back so hard that Mairon felt some of the strands rip from his scalp. He groaned in a mixture of protest and sick, twisted arousal.  
  
“ _Fuck._ ”  
  
So it was going to be one of _those_ nights.  
  
The chamber around them was clammy and dark, a stale cold that lingered upon the air and stuck to his skin. Mairon dragged Melkor forwards by the hem of his robes, pulling him in the direction of the leaden grey, fur-covered bed in the centre of the chamber.  
  
A slick tingle had begun to coarse through his veins as he felt Melkor exhale heavily against him and press more burning kisses against his lips.  As the back of Mairon’s legs hit the bed frame Melkor drew a fist from his tangled hair to rack fingernails down Mairon’s neck hard enough to draw three thin lines of blood.  Mairon gasped, and Melkor stole the opportunity to shove him backwards across the furs.  
  
His face dropped.  
  
And there was the issue – as Melkor always just bloody _assumed_ he would submit.  Mairon twisted, heat brightening the freckles on his cheeks as he shot Melkor a scathing glare.  
  
But before he was able to regain some dignity, a pair of rough, charred hands clamped down firm over his arms.  
  
“If you move Maia, I will shackle you to this bed.” Melkor growled.  
  
Mairon spluttered, a frown burning across his face. “That’s _highly_ domineering of you.”  Despite the Vala’s weight, he put in an effort to struggle against the grip, holding Melkor’s gaze with a disobedient stare.  In this position – with his back pressed to the furs and Melkor’s full weight across him – Mairon could feel the delicious friction of their crotches grinding together. The Vala was still half-hard if the hot press of his erection was anything to go off.  Mairon’s breath hitched, but he made an effort not to break his gaze.  
  
“And as usual Mairon,” Melkor drawled, clamping harder on his arms as Mairon squirmed in pain. “You are walking a fine line.  Ever I am lenient of your insolence … do not push me.”  
  
“Well that’s why I’m your favourite, is it not?” Mairon gasped, emboldened by the wine.  “And besides,” he said, as he again made to twist out of Melkor’s grasp, “how am I supposed to give you the best servicing of your life if I cannot be on top?”  
  
He felt Morgoth still above him, but for a moment.   
  
“… _Really_ ,” Melkor bit snidely, tilting his head down to swallow Mairon in a long, winding kiss.  
  
“Yes.” Mairon assured him as they came up for air.  A coy grin spread across his face.  “Nothing less for you, Master.”  
  
Melkor stared down at him with hooded eyes.  
  
“The best servicing of my life,” The Vala repeated, his fingers plunging painfully deep into the skin on Mairon’s upper arms – but the Maia was not deterred.  
  
“Indeed.” He jutted his chin up with a smirk: “The _best_.”  
  
Melkor’s grip loosened. Vala or not, Mairon knew even Melkor could not resist such a promise.  He was also aware that Melkor knew _exactly_ how brilliant Mairon was with his tongue, as the twitch of the Vala’s hips solidified his suspicions.  
  
“You make a bold claim there little one.” Morgoth’s breath gusted across his neck.  The Vala dragged his tongue through the droplets of blood that had begun to pool upon Mairon’s skin, and Mairon fought to maintain his composure – yet managed still an even laugh.  
  
“As always.”  
  
Melkor bit _hard_ at the juncture between his neck and collar, forcing Mairon to stifle a yelp.   
  
“Be aware that I will hold you to it.” The Vala ground in a warning that Mairon had no doubt he would follow through on.  
  
“I would expect nothing less.”  
  
The grip on his arms loosened, and Mairon seized the opportunity to drag Melkor down.  Flipping them over he landed himself upon the Vala’s broad chest, the slender bend of knees bracketing both sides of Melkor’s hips. Melkor’s eyes glinted with a dare and Mairon’s face flushed as he ground his hips down _hard_ , trying to extract a reaction.  Just as he felt his own lips part as his breaths begin to deepen –there it was. The subtle flicker of Melkor’s eyelids, that _hint_ of arousal that coursed beneath the mask.  
  
Reaching up with his right hand, Mairon tugged at the twists of his braid, undoing the tie that held his hair in place.  He was sure he already looked faintly ridiculous, his hair bunching near the scalp where Melkor had so carelessly wrenched at it.  But he was also keenly aware of how much Melkor enjoyed playing with the strands as he swallowed him whole.  Too bad his hair was just so damned _long_.  
  
“… Remind me again why I left the Elf-Maids in the hall,” Morgoth deadpanned after a few moments, staring at Mairon with an unconvinced expression as the Maia battled with the braid.  
  
Mairon bristled, slipping fingers through the ends of the knots to unravel more strands.  
  
“ _Because_ ,” He snarked, glaring down at Melkor as he pulled the last twists of the hairdo free, crimson locks spilling down his chest, “they wouldn’t know what to do with your penis if you slapped them in the face with it. You know how these Elf-Maids are; the perfect little virgins.”  
  
“That’s half the fun.” Melkor bit with a promising leer.  
  
“Gross,” Mairon waved the comment off with a haughty flick of his hand. “I would _never_ lay with an Elf.”  
  
The Vala snorted.  
  
“If I knew it was going to be this much of a performance, I would have brought a platter with me. Get on with it, would you.”  
  
Mairon rolled his eyes, reaching down to untwist the ties of Melkor’s robe.  
  
He felt the scratchy skin of Morgoth’s charred hands drag down his arms, as the Vala shed Mairon of his unbuttoned tunic.  Grinding his hips down, Mairon was rewarded with the slight hitching of breath. His own cock was twitching in anticipation as sharp nails scratched down his back.  
  
“Relax, my Lord.” A grin tugged at his cheeks, as he squirmed from the sting. “Just relax. Trust me; I plan to ruin you.”  
  
Bare-chested, Mairon lowered himself with nimble hands to steal another long kiss.  His head swum, and he fancied he heard a quiet growl vibrate deep in the Vala’s throat as Melkor responded with fervour.  
  
Mairon tracked his fingers down the line of Melkor’s stomach, sneaking a hand under the hem of his pants. Kissing Melkor was like kissing an inferno – hot and slick and dazzling, the taste of ash lathering across his tongue.  
  
He broke away with a gasp, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, and mind reeling.  
  
Below him Melkor was spread across the furs in debauched splendour; huge, hard and muscled, and glowing with an ethereal light that Mairon had only ever seen emanate from the Valar. It was a burning, blinding fire that sung from behind Melkor’s eyes – and as he gazed upon it in its most naked form, the power set Mairon’s blood alight.   
  
He felt very strange.  
  
Mairon ducked his head, and butterflied haphazard lines of wet kisses down Melkor’s neck, along his collar, over his nipples.  Brazen, he began to unbutton the clasps on his Master’s pants.  
  
There was a crash from somewhere above their ceiling.  Pausing Mairon glanced up, but saw nothing but the dark rough of stone.  Hmm.  For the sake of their lives, those Orcs better not have damaged the floor.  
  
He frowned, sliding down Melkor’s body. The moment the Vala’s cock sprung free, Mairon swallowed him to the hilt.  
  
Melkor grabbed his hair _hard_.  Mairon could hear the telltale rumble of a stifled groan above him as the Vala’s hips twitched forwards in a poorly concealed thrust.  
  
He dragged his head back up with a slick pop.  
  
“My favourite dish.” Mairon grinned, looking up to catch the slackened expression on his Master’s face. And, how divine it was.  
  
“Oh?” Melkor grunted, staring down at his with burning, glassy eyes. “Shall we arrange for you to eat it at the next feast then?  I am sure Gothmog would be ever so amused.”  
  
“Uh …”  
  
The Vala sniffed as Mairon’s cheeks pinkened. “… Thought as much.” The hands tightened in his hair, and Mairon felt his head being rather forcefully steered back down. “Less talking, more licking.  You have yet to keep up your end of this bargain.”  Melkor’s stare bore into him as the Vala shifted to get a better view, his dark pupils glittering.  
  
Mairon conceded with a roll of his eyes.  
  
He was tempted to plunge his face further back between Melkor’s legs, if only just to see how the Vala would react …  
  
Fighting a wave of dizziness, Mairon steadied himself with his hands.  Gently, he ran a nimble tongue up the Vala’s length, and stopped when he reached the tip – before plunging himself back down.  
  
He could feel Melkor’s eyes burning into the top of his head, as the Vala took to stroking long fingers through his hair. A palm brushed over the tip of Mairon’s left ear, forcing him to bite back a moan as he jerked helplessly in response. Fuck.  No.   
  
Focus.  
  
Twisting his right hand around the base, Mairon ducked down to suckle at the Vala’s balls.  
  
Despite Melkor’s scoff, this was, without a doubt, his favourite pastime.  But Melkor need not know that – how the gentle rock of his hips sent tingles down Mairon’s arms, how his breathy groans made Mairon’s ears sing, his stomach ache, his chest clench.   
  
And how deep, deep, _deep_ Mairon had fallen.  
  
Blinking, he raised his head.  
  
_Focus, Maia.  
  
_ Taking the Vala again between his lips, Mairon hummed as Melkor’s head hit the back of his throat.  
  
Melkor’s hands tightened in his hair, as Mairon bobbed languidly along his length.  The Vala’s breaths were beginning to rasp at the edges, and the sound was sending deep bolts of arousal through Mairon’s own sorely untouched erection.  He slid a hand down to touch himself.  
  
And then, in one sudden movement, Mairon found himself _none-too-gently_ yanked forwards, as Melkor apparently gave in to the temptation of reasserting his dominance and started to thrust hard down his throat.  
  
For a few moments Mairon brought his hands up to wrap fingers around the Vala’s base, trying to steady the pace – but he quickly found that Melkor forced him down harder with every attempt he made at easing the way.   
  
_Fine_ , then.  Looked like it was time for Plan B.  
  
_As usual_.  
  
Mairon sucked in air through his nose and resigned himself to his fate.  If Melkor had just wanted a face-fuck, he could have at least mentioned it earlier. Mairon had made plans … he already had a strategy underway …  
  
His hand scuttled behind Melkor’s balls to massage at a tender spot of skin that he knew drove the Vala wild. From above him, he heard the groan – _loud_ , now, since Melkor was no longer bothering to play it cool – and the increased sharpness of the thrusts that indicated his Master was getting close.   
  
Now, to just sneak his fingers a liiiittle further back –  
  
“Don’t even think about it,” Melkor grunted through laboured breaths.  He shifted his grip to cradle the back of Mairon’s skull with both hands, and the room filled with a slapping crescendo of balls meeting chin.  
  
And _oh_ ; oh _shit_. Mairon closed his eyes.  
  
This … was a little bit rough, even for him. Mairon could feel his hands clench involuntarily by Melkor’s hips as his hröa screamed at him, but he forced himself to keep his throat relaxed.  
  
It was not long before Melkor’s pace increased.  The Vala began to groan in earnest as he drove forward in violent, stuttering thrusts.  
  
And in one final, breathless moan that ripped like the earth from his throat, Melkor tossed back his head and _came_ , shooting ropes of seed down Mairon’s throat.  
  
And then … _it_ happened.  
  
The worst thing, really, that _could_ happen at this particular moment.  
  
As Melkor began to rock through a trembling orgasm on the furs below, jerking in abandon – Mairon felt himself _choke_.  
  
His eyes flew open. Something wasn’t right, his throat was clenching –  
  
No –  
  
His stomach gave a violent tug.  
  
Oh no, _what_ –  
  
Blanching, he slammed his hands down on Melkor’s thighs.  Mairon’s eyes began to stream as he pushed upwards in a frantic bid to remove his head – but to no avail.  Melkor’s grip was iron-tight, and the Vala was too lost in his orgasm to notice what was happening.  
  
And in one violent lurch – Melkor’s cock still pressing hard against his tonsils – Mairon felt the first wash of vomit shoot up his throat … and squirt out his nose.  
  
What _the kinslaying fuck_ –  
  
Naturally, he panicked.  
  
Scraping his nails deep into the sensitive skin of Melkor’s thighs, Mairon wrenched his head back and choked as Melkor’s softening cock slid from his mouth.   
  
After a few seconds of air, his hröa shuddered with a second heave.  Tilting his head forward Mairon gagged, as the curdled remnants of elf flesh and spiced wine spluttered across the pale skin of Melkor’s stomach, and coated the Vala’s crotch in a thick spread of bile.  
  
“Wha –” Melkor began, stirring below him through the final twitches of his orgasm.  
  
Mairon whined, trying to suck in a breath between hacks.  
  
He looked down.  
  
Oh fuck.  His _hair_.  
  
“Mairon – _Eru_ – what –”  
  
Glancing up ashen-faced at Melkor, Mairon was forced to duck his head again as another bout of illness hit him – and he splattered more of his meal down Melkor’s thighs.  
  
Not for the first time that evening, Melkor groaned.  This time, however, it was in horror.  
  
Cringing, Mairon whimpered. A long pink rope of bile dangled from his lips.  
  
“Ugh,” He reached forward numbly to dislodge it.  
  
The curdled stench of red wine, stomach acid and sex twisted up his wet nostrils, and Mairon blinked in dismay as he stared down at the chunky mixture of food, alcohol and unswallowed lines of come that lay in crude array before him.  And all over Melkor.  
  
“Well this is just great.” Mairon croaked. What a wonderful way to go about losing blowjob privileges.  
  
There was a beat.  
  
“ _Eru, Mairon._ ” Melkor groaned.  
  
Mairon looked up, his face beginning to regain some colour as he took in more of the scene before him. And the darkening look on Melkor’s face. And the … and the full extent of quite just _how much_ vomit was actually coating Melkor’s skin …  
  
It was like a shower. The aftermath of a terrible thunderstorm.  Of puke. And it was damned and utterly _everywhere_. Except on him, of course – because apparently his aim was still on point.  Well, apart from his hair, anyway.  
  
_There goes my promotion_ , Mairon thought privately, with distaste.  
  
“I … I think it would be appropriate if I were just to leave …” Mairon ventured.  _And good luck to you, Melkor._ With semi-confused difficulty, then, he began the pilgrimage of attempting to unwind his legs from Melkor’s body without getting vomit smeared on them.  
  
This worked well, too.  
  
Until a charred hand clamped down around his forearm.   
  
And its owner shot him a withering stare of pure, unbridled: _Abject_ _fury_.  
  
“ _Like **hell** you are_ **.** ” 


End file.
